


Reality Check

by lifeofsnark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Impala Sex, Impassioned kissing in alleyways, In which I use the word 'lube' at least 47 times, M/M, Wincest - Freeform, implied dub-con with hallucifer, late season wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:09:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4720541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeofsnark/pseuds/lifeofsnark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometime after Castiel knocked down the wall in Sam’s mind it became apparent to the younger Winchester that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could never put Sammy back together again. Sam began hearing Lucifer, seeing him during the day as well as the night, his life slowly melting into a stream-of-consciousness nightmare.<br/>In a rusted out warehouse Dean gave Sam a way to cope- the physical sensation of here-and-now pain helped to block out the mental agony of Satan in his head, scratching away at Sam’s resistance. But what happened when Sam’s hand healed and pain was no longer available as a distraction?<br/>Well, Dean comes up with a solution to that too, one that ends with nightmares broken, lips locked together, and bodies pressed against each other on the hood of the Impala out under the stars.<br/>This is the story of how Sam losing his grip on reality ended up giving the Winchester brothers the greatest reality check of their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reality Check

Time always fractured strangely for hunters, measured not in hours and minutes but in beats of a heart, measured in the survivors interviewed, in lives lost, in people saved. Hunters went days without sleep, too long without being called by their real name- like the superheroes of old, their identity cradled close to the chest- went weeks or months or years without speaking publicly of the truth.

Hunters lived on the fringe, they walked along the razor’s edge of the abyss, that fine line between right and wrong, life and death; hunters danced in the grey area, the place of suspended morals and truths and reality.

Sam had grown up on that line, had cut his teeth on the cold steel of a hunter’s life; when his reality shifted it was so subtle that even he wondered if it was happening. He had been and seen and done so much that surely there was nothing left for his imagination left to invent, the well-spring of fictional terrors run dry, the bogeyman consumed by the horrors that truly do go bump in the night.

He was wrong.

It began (or so he later pieced together with the perfect vision of survivor’s hindsight) with small flashbacks, little sensory snippets that suddenly flung him back in the pit. He and Dean would be in the Impala, some eighties band screaming through the radio when some tone or cadence or _something_ would sound just like Lucifer taunting Michael, vivid enough for all of the hair on Sam’s body to prickle to attention.

He would hear Lucifer in the laughter of a random man at the bar, guffawing over a randy joke; he would hear the devil in the excited shout of a stranger on the street, he would hear Satan’s seductive drawl- the one he used to cut and slice, the softness of his tone belying the studied bite of his words- in Dean’s gruff call of _Sammy_.

That was the moment fear, cold and insidious, slid its way down Sam’s spine, there to stay.

It had been a favorite game of Lucifer’s, down in the pit. He would call out to Sam in Dean’s voice, sometimes false reassurances, other times the harshest of words- disownments and curses and shame, all falling onto Sam’s ears in the beloved voice of his brother; the voice that had told him stories in the dark (of heroes and dragons and a world where the good guy wins), the voice that had shaken him awake with silly songs, the voice that had been his anchor on nights that the darkness was too big, the dawn too far away.

When Dean’s baritone began to take on the echoing hiss of snakes and tongues of fire, Sam began watching his brother’s lips when he spoke, reassuring himself that this _was_ Dean, that he was here and real and truly speaking to Sam and no one else.

It was at this point that the nightmares began in earnest, dreams of fire that burned like ice, of echoing laughter in the darkness, the sensation of never being _alone._ Sam found himself more tired in the morning than he was when he laid down to sleep, his muscles constantly aching, and the lingering feeling of another- of some other force clinging to his skin and brain and self. It wasn’t unlike that bloody afternoon under the sun in Lawrence, the afternoon that had resulted in his long fall into hell- it was the aftertaste of possession, he told himself, the fear and paranoia that he wasn’t alone in his head, that a little piece of Lucifer had been left behind to fester.

Sam stopped looking for privacy- a rare thing when living motel room to motel room with his brother- and always took the opportunity to accompany Dean out for supplies or drinks or a drive. He hated being alone: hearing voices in the thrum of motel pipes and the crackle of fire in the rattle of the radiator, smelling smoke where he should only smell musty carpet, seeing horns and wings instead of  the shadows of furniture on the walls.

So Sam clung to his brother, the brother who had fought off every force to ever try to harm Sam, fought them even when the younger hunter was embarrassed and perfectly capable of defending himself. It was what he knew, all he knew- when he broke his arm as a child, he cried for Dean. When he fell ill at school he refused to give them John’s number, insisting that Dean would take care of him and they needed to find _him_ \- in times of fear or pain or turmoil, the Winchester boys clung to each other. For so long Sam had been fighting the strange pull towards Dean, a meteor caught in the orbit of his beautiful older brother, knowing that if they ever collided the fallout would be catastrophic. But now Sam was fighting a battle on two fronts, and he knew one would have to give.

He started living his nightmares during the day. It was subtle, so subtle at first, so surreptitious that Sam at first wrote them off as tricks of the ears or his own absentmindedness. He and Dean would be out shopping or doing research and he would hear Dean holler faintly for Sam to go over an aisle and grab something. When Sam would find Dean again, item in hand, Dean would swear he never asked for it, that they didn’t need it, and would cock an eyebrow at his brother, not sure where this was coming from.

The first time or two Sam wrote off as poor jokes or overhearing someone else, but after the third time, the fourth, he began to worry, to fear that something was off in a slight but crucial way. It wasn’t long before he could no longer tell the difference between waking and sleeping, his nights consumed by the same fears and niggling doubts that plagued his days, those days now just the lingering after-burn of his nocturnal struggles.

~~

He saw Lucifer in truth the same day that Castiel declared himself god. They’d been in the warehouse where Crowley had been conducting his little experiments, Dean begging Cas to see sense, to heal Sam. Castiel had laughed, a mellifluous chuckle better suited to a megalomaniac movie villain than the angel they had come to know. Sam didn’t remember anything else that happened, couldn’t have focused on it if his life depended on it, because that’s when Lucifer appeared.

Sam startled, slipping and falling and gashing his hand wide and deep on broken glass.

“Long time no spooning,” Lucifer had drawled, wearing a smirk that didn’t reach those cold, calculating eyes.

“You’re not real,” Sam had whispered to himself brokenly, looking off to the side of Lucifer, keeping him in his peripheral vision but not focusing on him, not willing to admit he was there. “You’re not real. You’re in hell, it’s just my brain leaking memories of the from the cage ‘cause the wall is breaking down. That’s all. _That’s all.”_ He didn’t know who he was trying to convince, himself or the fallen archangel hissing in his ear.

“It’s a good little theory… you know, I think this is my best torture yet. Let you believe that you’re free and then yank the wool out from over your eyes. You’re still in the cage, Sammy, down in the cage with me.”

Sam had run. He turned his back on his brother and his surrogate father and the angel declaring himself their new Lord of all and ran, booked it for a place where he wouldn’t be able to hear the devil, where Satan couldn’t follow.

He ran through the winding, rat-infested corridors of the sprawling industrial complex, Lucifer haunting him in reflective pieces of glass and the echoes of his own footfalls, and cruel jokes ringing in the hunter’s ears.

_“Oh yes, maybe this way’s to the exit- oh darn, looks like you’ve backed yourself into a corner, kid. You should remember what that’s like, you spent plenty of time in the corner of the cage, my own little defense coach for the great Mike and Lucy match._

_“I should enter you in track match, whaddaya say? Looks like a little case of stalking motivates Olympic performances, Sammy.”_

When Dean found Sam he’d been sitting under a flickering EXIT sign, the E burnt out, his hands plastered over his ears, head resting on his curled legs. Dean had looked at him then with an expression completely void of bravado; the façade of carefree brother shaken away and replaced with gut wrenching fear. Dean looked at Sam the same way young parents regard their baby when its fever rages to 104, with fear and confusion and desperation born of love.

In that moment Sam wanted nothing more than to hold Dean’s hand, to cling to it like a small child faced with the vastness of this great world. It wasn’t the first time Sam had felt such urges, he’d escaped to Stanford not just for the education but also with the hope that the twisted feelings he’d had for his brother would fade away.

Once at Stanford he’d realized how futile it was, how pointless and innocent that hope seemed. He’d mention something about Dean to Jess or another friend and they would respond, _oh, that’s your brother, right?_ And then move on, as though that was it, as though _brother_ didn’t mean home and love and friend and safety and belonging all mashed together in a freckled, leather-clad package.

But that night, back home in Bobby’s kitchen, Sam ached for Dean, thinking (and knowing it was childish) that Dean had fought through everything life had thrown at him, that Dean hadn’t failed yet, not at anything that mattered. Sam just wanted his big brother to be able to kiss it and make him better.

They were quiet, they knew the words were coming, but not quite yet. Dean had shoved Sam down into one of the worn wooden chairs in Bobby’s kitchen and stitched up his hand, the needle soaked in rubbing alcohol (not whiskey, not this time), the familiar tug of metal through flesh helping Sam focus on the here and now and Dean.

When the last suture had been cut and sterile gauze secured around Sam’s palm Dean cradled that hand in both of his- the younger hunter’s fingers so much longer than the other’s- and pressed his forehead against their linked hands, hunching over that simple point of connection.

“You need to let me take care of you,” he admonished quietly, voice cracking in the end.

“Dean,” Sam murmured in response, a word that carried so many meanings- it said _I love you_ and said _I’m scared_ and said _it is what it is._

After that his glimpses of Lucifer became more frequent, but still he didn’t say anything to Dean, blustering on in the Winchester way ( _tis but a scratch)_ pretending that everything was fine until the penultimate second. He grounded himself in his older brother, the only source of continuity in his life. He would focus on the way Dean’s shirt stretched tight and damp across his shoulder blades, how the skin and sinew flowed over the broad bones beneath- he focused on his brother’s shoulders instead of Lucifer singing _Metal Health_ in the background. _“Get your straight-jackets on tonight, Oh bang your head! Metal health'll drive you mad”._

Sam would touch Dean during the day, sometimes in passing, others because he wanted tangible evidence that his brother was with him- concentrating on the warmth of Dean’s body through the cotton or denim, the gentle give of muscle beneath his fingertips. If Dean noticed, he didn’t say anything.

Sam kept it to himself- Satan’s face beside his own in the mirror,  the devil’s grin on the countenance of strangers, sitting in the seat between Dean and himself- until it all came to a head one night, long after Sam had lost  his bearings in this strange world of waking nightmares.

The leviathan were loose, out disguised among the general population, and Bobby and Dean were both out on cases. Dean had come to get him, asking Sam to drive getaway, and he’d gone- he’d never really been able to deny Dean anything. If he could, he’d never have left the house when Dean showed up at Stanford.

Dean (well, who he thought was Dean), had driven downtown, stopping at a warehouse. They’d gone inside, and everything had turned to shit. Dean wasn’t there, it wasn’t Dean, wasn’t the brother Sam had been leaning on for reassurance.

It was Lucifer.

~~

  
The dark house was Dean’s first clue that something was wrong. Sam was supposed to be home, and he didn’t usually sit alone in the dark, especially not recently. Dean palmed his .45 out of the back of his pants and padded quietly into the kitchen.  Sam’s laptop was closed on the kitchen table, the fan quiet, so it had been off for a few minutes at least. Keeping his eyes on the opening to Bobby’s study Dean stood on his toes to touch the dusty old light fixture on the kitchen ceiling- it was cool.

After scanning through the rest of the house Dean returned to the first floor and began searching for a note. Sam always left a note, it was one of his good citizen hang-ups: you returned the car you ‘borrowed’ washed and with a full tank of gas, you always left the girl a way to get in touch with you, _and you left a note when you went out._

There wasn’t a note. That’s when Dean started to wonder why- and with who- Sam left.

He thought for a moment, wondering how to track him, and pulled out his phone. He dialed Verizon, listening to the message about how his call was important and blah blah blah.

Finally he got a live human person.

“Hi, my name is Jedidiah Wilson”- he made a face. “Yes. It’s a family name. Anyways, my brother and I were out tonight and he left his phone somewhere. I was hoping you could tell me where it is? It’s the other phone on this plan.”

His features hardened, obviously not getting the answers he wanted. “Yes, what was your name again? Sheryl? Okay, Sheryl, come on. He’s not feeling well, and I’d really like to get him home. You have kids, Sheryl? Little boy? I bet he’s cute, got curls all over the place and everything. Well, you know how he is when he’s sick, with the unnatural quiet and the crankiness and the big flat eyes? That’s how my brother is looking, and I really just want to get the phone and get him home.”

His eyes and mouth softened, relief blurring the worry-worn creases. “Thanks Sheryl, thank you so much. You have a good night too.”

His boots were pounding back out to the Impala before the line had disconnected, the GPS displayed on his screen.

Sam was in an old industrial part of town, another rust-belt district full of dilapidated warehouses and iron hulks that will never be used again. Dean’s mind ran with potential reasons for Sam to be down there (none of them good), and yet somehow reality turned out to be worse.

Sam hadn’t been kidnapped for leverage, or tortured, or gone for a long run. When Dean quietly eased open the side door of the warehouse, Sam was yelling at empty air, his shouts echoing above into the empty rafters and beams, voice echoing up to the angels who pretended not to hear him.

“Sam,” Dean said, calmly and levelly. Sam needed normal now, not sympathy or misplaced wheedling. He’d react to those, he would _know_ something was wrong. Sam wanted normal, and Dean would give it to him.

“Sam, Sam! What are you doing here? How’d you get here?”

Sam swung around to face his older brother, and Dean didn’t recognize that look in his eyes. He’d seen Sam drunk- blackout, giggling drunk. He’d seen Sam high on meds, in the grips of despair, possessed by a demon, possessed by Lucifer, and yet Dean had never seen Sam like this.

His eyes were wide and terrified, all color washed from his usually ruddy cheeks. He hadn’t looked like this before saying ‘yes’ to Lucifer, not even then; he’d had a task and he’d done it. He hadn’t looked like this when Dean was dying, when he was facing the yellow-eyed demon, he’d never looked like this before- unanchored and lost, far away from everything that was safe and familiar.

Sam’s gun swung towards Dean, who put his hands up. “Whoa, whoa there.”

“I came here with you Dean!” Sam twisted the gun a little, like he was wishing it was a shield instead.

“Well here I am,” Dean countered, trying to imply that that was what mattered, not the comings and goings before. “It’s me, Sam,” he called, voice low and urgent.

Sam looked over at something to his right, his eyes focused on nothing. “No, I don’t, I…” He looked at Dean and then said quietly, brokenly, “I can’t be sure.”

That’s when Dean knew, just knew in his gut how to reach Sam. “Gimme your hand.” When Sam looked at him blankly, Dean marched forward and held his own palm out expectantly. “The gimp hand, give it to me.”

Sam placed his huge tanned paw in his brother’s, and Dean was struck by memory, by all the times he had stood on a sidewalk and stretched his hand down to toddler Sam. _Looked both ways?_

_Yes Dean._ And off they would go, hand in hand. Now they were hand in hand again.

Dean dug his thumb into the bandage across Sam’s palm, popping the stitches he’d put in himself less than twenty-four hours ago. Sam winced, his elbow going loose like he wanted to tug away from Dean.

“Feel this? This is real. Isn’t it different? Isn’t _this-”_ he dug his nail in until blood began to well through the gauze- “different from what’s going on in there. _I’m real._ You have to make that stone one and build on it. I’m real, Sam, you gotta believe me man.”

Sam’s gaze flicked to a point behind Dean and then back, his eyes wide but focused. He jerked his hand away, digging his own thumb into the wound, face grimacing but eyes clear and focusing on Dean.

“Yeah, I think maybe so,” Sam muttered, eyes still flicking back and forth to Dean and the seemingly empty space behind him.

Dean’s voice softened- he had Sam’s attention now. “This, this pain, this focuses everything, it brings it down to you and sensation. This pain is real Sam. We got you out.”

Sam handed his gun over to his brother, butt first. Seeing Lucifer, feeling the blood, hot and sticky running down his hand, he could deal with that stuff, at least for now, but the idea that he could have shot Dean, _his Dean_ \- that he couldn’t live with.

They went home hand in hand.

He got up the next morning late, long after the sun had risen and Bobby and Dean had walked down to the junkyard. The coffee was cold in the carafe but Sam drank it anyways, thinking of how cold, black, bitter coffee was a pretty apt comparison to the pit.

He’d gone back upstairs and dressed- boxers, socks, pants, shirts- and gone back downstairs to see Dean coming back in for a drink, oil smeared up his forearms.

“Well look at you,” the elder Winchester had grinned, eyes twinkling.

“Yeah, put on my own socks and everything,” Sam replied. He didn’t have the heart to tell Dean that he’d managed to put on his socks despite Lucifer using them as puppets.

The next week or so had this strange insular feeling to it, as though Bobby’s house was an island and the three of them were watching a storm break all around them- the news was full of “new God sightings” in which Castiel would appear, announce himself as god, and then inevitably smite someone. To a lesser extent the Winchesters and Bobby were watching for information on the Leviathan in reports of strange deaths and disappearances and normally loving family members suddenly up and leaving home.

They stayed with Bobby for a little over a week, overtly helping out around the place and researching the Leviathan but truly trying to hold off the inevitable, to deny that Sam was seeing Lucifer, to push pause and try to regain their drive.

The night after the warehouse incident Dean resewed Sam’s hand in silence, a bottle of whiskey on the table in between them from which they both took long pulls and was sloshed over the fresh gauze wrapped around Sam’s palm. Sam went up to bed in Bobby’s guest room, not breaking the silence that stretched between him and Dean. They needed to talk, but didn’t want to.

Dean stayed down on the couch, watching TV until even the Late Late Show had gone off, until the house was quiet and creaking in the cool night air. He pulled the old knitted throw over himself and rearranged his head on the arm of the sagging couch, then rearranged himself again. He twisted, placed his socked feet on the floor and slowly padded up the stairs, skipping the one that always creaked.

He slowly opened the door to Sam’s room, wincing as the hinges creaked and vowing to oil them in the morning. Sam was sprawled on his back, one bare arm up over his head, a furrow between his eyebrows like he was dreaming and not enjoying it.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed and watched Sam’s chest rise and fall, glanced at the bandaged hand, ran his gaze down over the dips and planes of Sam’s long body.

“Dean?”

Dean opened his eyes and went to sit up, but noticed that his arm was completely asleep.

“What are you doing in here?”

“Uh…” Dean say up, using his left hand to massage the blood back into his numb right arm. “Just figured you shouldn’t get the bed to yourself, I am the oldest,” he tried to joke, but it fell flat.

“Dean.” Sam glanced at his brother and then away, he knew his brother was lying.

“Just needed to check on you, Sammy, must have fallen asleep.” Not for love or money would Dean admit that he slept better when he could hear his brother’s deep and steady breaths.

“It’s okay.” Sam swing to the edge of the bed, stretched slowly and painfully, and then lumbered to his feet. “I get it.”

Sam did get it, because that night, when Dean was once again trying to distract himself with late-night TV, Sam wandered down to Dean, almost immediately falling asleep with Dean’s feet in his lap.

~~~

They were in a crowded coffee shop when Sam really lost it. Dean had gone off to wait for the drinks, probably flirting with the cute barista, and Sam was scrunched up at a tiny little table (barely bigger than a waitress’ tray) sweltering in his greatcoat.

Satan popped into existence next to him. “Coffee again Sam? This is what, cup five for you this morning? Even for a giant your size, it seems a wee bit excessive. Or maybe you’re going for a heart attack, didn’t your brother have one of those once?”

Sam held his left hand in his lap and dug his right thumb into the flesh there, nail digging into the tendons.

Lucifer didn’t even flicker. He grinned, a crocodile in a hominid suit. “Oh, not the hand thing again, Sammy, give it up. Come on, you’ve got to have something better than that.”

Sam bolted for the door- he needed out, he needed air, he needed sleep- he wanted to be back on the cot in Bobby’s panic room, a place that was familiar and warm and guaranteed safe from Lucifer, real or not.

Once on the sidewalk, brisk wind blowing Sam’s hair in his eyes and his mouth, Lucifer disappeared, but the sound remained; a Cheshire cat laugh coming from everywhere and nowhere, covering the sound of cars passing and people walking on the sidewalk and birds crying overhead; everything was consumed by the gleeful laughs of Sam’s all-consuming fear.

“Sam!” Dean was in front of him, his mouth forming Sam’s name. “Sam!”

Dean found his brother out on the sidewalk staring up at the sky, hands clasped over his ears. He grabbed the taller hunter by the biceps, shaking him a little. “Sam. Sam!” No change.

He dragged his brother into the alley by the coffee shop, kept company by the dumpster and a few empty boxes advertising paper cups. “C’mon brother, it’s me! This is real!”

Sam’s eyes focused on Dean, but none of the panic in them faded out.

“Sam,” Dean shouted one more time before sliding his hands up to the sides of his brothers face, broad fingers cradling sharp cheekbones, and jerked Sam’s face down to his and _kissed him,_ kissed him with all the rage and fear and desperation that had been building since Sam’s wall came down; he kissed him with seven years’ worth of suppressed longing and love and feelings denied. Dean kissed his brother, running his lips along those more familiar than his own, slightly chapped and tasting of bitter coffee. He pushed the bigger man up against the brick wall of the alley and held his head captive, his fists curled in Sam’s long hair, one thigh shoved hard between Sam’s legs.

Dean drew back, searching the hazel eyes of the only person who really mattered. “Please, Sammy. Please come back.”

Sam’s pupils focused on Dean, and his breathing began to slow. “Dean?” He touched fingers to his lips. “Dean,” he breathed, that name saturated with shock and relief. Sam hauled his brother back, the kiss this time imbued with giddiness and the slight tang of fear.

“He’s gone,” Sam whispered, face still only inches from his brother’s. “He’s gone.”

They walked back to the Impala then, side by side, but Sam’s hand was clenched on a fistful of Dean’s coat. He’d found an anchor, a hand-hold on reality.

He’d found Dean.

~~~

Their next kiss was in the front seat of Baby. They’d been in the car for hours, Dean driving through the interstate and in and out of rainstorms. Sam had offered to take over for a while, but Dean brushed the offer off.

The most telling thing, for Dean, was that Sam let it drop- he didn’t nag Dean, or quote about how driving too long was more dangerous than driving drunk, or even roll his eyes. He just let his head fall back against the seat, legs open and stretched as much as they could. He wasn’t sleeping; Dean wasn’t sure how long he’d gone without getting some good sleep, but it had been a while. Even Sam knew that Dean was better off being the driver.

Sometime after crossing the Montana border it began raining in earnest, the clouds boiling out from the mountains like the harbingers of god’s final judgement. The roads were slick and everything reflected the headlights, so Dean pulled over to one of the shoulder vistas (one of the ones complete with the informational sign about the Historical Town Below and Interesting Local Geology) and listened to the rain hammering down, tiny little fists beating against the hood of the Impala.

Rain on Baby had always been a soothing sound for Sam, he’d grown up in that car: his lullaby had been rain on the roof and the engine purring through the gears. It had the same effect now, and he dozed off, lulled by the patter on the satin–black paint and the smell of humid air and coffee gone cold and Dean’s cologne.

It was sometime later, and he was still in the front seat of the Impala but now in Dean’s lap, his thighs parted, knees planted on each side of Dean’s hips. They were rocking against each other, cocks straining against worn denim, Zeppelin’s _Rain Song_ murmuring in the background- _I've felt the coldness of my winter, I never thought it would ever go, I cursed the gloom that set upon us, but I know that I love you so…_

Sam had his hands tangled in Dean’s hair, his head thrown back, his mind gloriously and brilliantly blank, just reveling in the feeling of _Dean._

He felt the button on his jeans pop, and he looked down, opening his eyes lazily. Dean’s head was tipped back against the seat, his face flushed, his hand moving slowly along the waistband of Sam’s pants, a blunt fingertip dipping underneath.

“Dean?” Sam questioned unsurely, hip slowing. They’d kissed now, and held hands (of course without making eye contact, because that would make it _real)_ but thus far there hadn’t been any acknowledgement of sex between them. That was the point of no return- right now they could still back down, pretend this hadn’t happened, weather any lingering awkwardness and move on.

Sex was irrevocable, the final bolt thrown home.

“I’ve got you.” Dean kissed against Sam’s collar bone, and so Sam relaxed into it- that was as close to talking about something as it usually got. He laid his cheek against the top of Dean’s head, the thick hair soft against his chin. His jeans loosened, slipped, and then cool air was wafting over his cock, damp with precome, and Dean’s hand stroked over him once, twice, twisting a little at the head.

“I think it’s about time we talked about these latent brother-loving feelings you’ve got, sailor-boy,” said Dean, but it _wasn’t_ Dean, it was Lucifer’s voice.

Sam reared back, cock softening instantly, and scrambled away, almost slipping into the floor.

“What? How?” his voice cracked on the last word. Dean’s face ran like hot wax and hardened into Lucifer’s sardonic visage.

“You’re dreaming Sammy. And don’t forget I’ve been in that noggin of yours- I know everything, all about those feelings you’ve had for your brother. Oh yeah, puberty was great for you, wasn’t it? You didn’t have a crush on teacher, no, my little boy king had a crush on _big bro._

_“_ So. Let’s talk about Dean, shall we?” Lucifer leered at Sam, one eyebrow raised, lips curling back from his teeth.

In the dream, Sam threw up.

He awoke all at once, long limbs thrashing, eyes opened wide and rolling in their sockets as they tried to look everywhere at once.

Dean was dozing, but came fully awake when Sam jolted up. “Hey, hey, just a dream, man. It was just a dream, Sammy.” He caught hold of the larger man’s shoulders, feeling the tension radiating through the muscles and tendons as though if they relaxed his whole body would shatter apart.

“Dean?” Sam blinked, eyes not completely focused on his brother.

“I’m here, Sam. I’m right here.”

“Dean,” Sam murmured, looking the other man in the eye. He leaned forward to rest his head on his brother’s shoulder; shoulders broad enough to carry responsibility for the whole world, broad enough to shelter Sam.

He felt Dean’s fingers winnowing through his hair, blunt nails caressing his scalp, and then Dean’s other hand was cradling the back of his head and Dean’s shoulder had shifted and their lips were pressed together, Sam’s face cradled in the shadow of Dean’s jaw and shoulder.

“Oh, Sammy,” Dean murmured. “You gotta hang on for me? Okay?”

Sam took one last inhale, trying to memorize the scent of Dean’s jaw- coffee and leather and cheap toothpaste and the cedar-y bite of shaving cream. He tugged away, squeezing Dean’s thigh before sliding back into his own seat.

“We have to keep going, Dean.”

Dean looked at his brother for a moment, torn between cuddling Sam and thereby surrendering to the pull of a girly moment, or putting the car in gear and getting them to the cabin.

Water sprayed behind the car as the pulled back onto the highway.

As kids Rufus’ cabin had been the site of weekend camping trips when John had needed to go off alone; it had meant fishing and s’mores and staying up late while listening to the older men talk about hunts.

Now the cabin felt like a haven, a protected little sanctuary for the brothers to catch their breath. They’d always flipped a coin or played rock paper scissors for the bed (despite the fact that they both _knew_ the other usually lost on purpose).

They didn’t play that night, they didn’t pretend. Dean dropped Sam’s bag by the bed and headed back out to the car where he stayed until it was dark, the kind of darkness you can only get a hundred miles away from everything.

When he did finally go in he paced through the house, heavy boots silent on the rough-hewn floor. He took them off outside the bedroom door and left them there against the wall.

His shirt fell on the threshold and his pants at the foot of the bed.

He sat on the edge of the mattress and began tugging off his socks when Sam shifted. “Dean?” he murmured into the dark, his tongue weighted by dreams.

“Yeah, Sammy?” Dean asked. He didn’t move perceptibly but something shifted in his pose- where before he had been easy and moving smooth and quiet he was now braced, waiting for Sam to shout the roof down, or worse- quietly ask Dean to leave.

Sam held up the edge of the blanket until Dean slid in.

Sam stayed curled on his side and Dean lay flat on his back, body tensed from the internal warfare of _wrongwrongwrong_ and _sorightrightright._ Under the sheet Sam’s hand began moving, slowly and hesitantly like a skittish animal looking for shelter, until it stopped and he clung to Dean’s hand, those long fingers seeking a hold on the precipice over which he hung.

There was a long moment suspended between them, possibilities and words unsaid hanging heavy in the air.

Dean rolled into Sam with one fluid movement because he was already in his brother’s bed and dammit he might as well ride this train right off the tracks. He tucked himself around Sam, his legs not long enough to envelope the taller man completely, but he pulled him close and held him tight. Dean’s top hand slid over Sam’s belly and feathered over the skin there, soft and warm over the ridges of muscle beneath.

Sam’s hand grabbed Dean’s and guided them to his cock, already half-hard in his briefs. They stroked up and down his shaft once, twice, Sam’s hand still covering Dean’s, and then Sam murmured, “Gonna fuck me, brother?”

Dean’s cock had already made its interest clear, insinuated as it was against the curve of Sam’s ass, but at that it twitched and Dean’s fingers tightened a little around the base of Sam’s dick. “C’mon Dean, know you wanna,” Sam crooned, and then he was rocking back into Dean and forward into Dean’s fingers and Dean’s hips began a rhythm of their own, one he was as powerless to stop as the movement of the tides.

“Oh god, Sammy,” Dean said, his voice dark with self-damnation and lust and pleading; the plea of a wish almost fulfilled.

“Lube’s in the side pocket of my duffel,” Sam said, still rocking, his voice not quite as collected as it had been.

And then Dean was up and he was unzipping Sam’s bag and grabbing the little bottle while he listened to the rustle of clothing- Sam shuffling off his briefs- and then Dean was doing the same and he was back on the bed and lubing his fingers.

That’s when he looked at Sam and his brain caught up with the rest of his body. “How you want to do this?” he questioned sheepishly, fingers shiny with synthetic slick.

“I wanna see you,” Sam replied, and then he was kneeling facing Dean and leaning down into the shorter hunter, placing his lips against his brothers’. “It’s fine,” he murmured into Dean’s mouth. “It’s just me.”

Dean slowly relaxed as Sam’s lips cruised down over his clavicle, sucking little love bites there. “You done this before?” he asked, needing to asked yet horrified that he would voice his thoughts.

“Yeah, plenty of times,” and then he sucked one of Dean’s nipples between his lips, taking gentle tugs. Sam could _feel_ Dean trying to process his quip, and so he slid back up to lay his forehead against Dean’s. “I’ve had plenty of sex, Dean. You’ve had plenty of sex, and that’s what this is.” He wrapped his hand around Dean’s thick length where it jutted between them. “Good. Hot. Sex.” He punctuated each word with a stroke of his hand.

“Right,” said Dean, and Sam could see it all come together in those gorgeous verdant eyes, he watched all the loose pieces of the puzzle snapping together for his brother.

Dean placed his hands up on Sam’s shoulders and pushed, knocking the bigger man across the bed and onto his back. Dean shoehorned himself between Sam’s legs, their cocks rubbing side by side, and Dean lowered his lips to the salty tan flesh and began to explore, relearning the skin he’d already touched a thousand times and a thousand different ways- he’d bathed Sam as a kid, carried him when he was blackout drunk, stitched up wounds more times and in more places than he could remember. Now, though, now Dean learned Sam with his mouth, his nose, his tongue: he traced the topography of his chest (pecs, nipples, springy hair) with his teeth, he learned where Sam-smell lingered the most strongly (beneath his arms and jaw and the crease where leg met hip), and found the sensitive spots where kisses made his skin shiver.

He pulled back, admiring the view Sam made- all glistening skin and heaving chest- before locating the little bottle of lube within the sheets and reslicking his fingers. He pressed Sam’s legs back, knees to his chest, and then slid into the space they left.

Dean knelt and kissed Sam, leaning his weight onto his brother, jelly-coated fingers sliding between the cheeks of Sam’s ass and rubbing little circles over his puckered hole. Sam’s breath hissed out and the little ring of muscle contracted under Dean’s fingertip.

Dean ducked his head down to suck one nipple, then the other, slowly dragging his lips over the ridges of Sam’s abs and stopping at the head of his dick, weeping and crimson with need.

“C’mon, Dean,” Sam panted, raising his head to gaze down at his older brother. “You’re already fingering my asshole, don’t turn squeamish now.” His eyes glittered with challenge and lust and that oh-so-confidant Sam swagger.

In response Dean raised one eyebrow and worked the tip of his finger through the tight ring of muscle guarding Sam’s hole, which forced a whoosh of air from the younger man’s lungs.

Dean smirked and lowered his lips to the fat head of Sam’s cock; sucking it into his mouth he tongued the dripping bead of precome from his slit and slid his tongue down and around the bottom of the head, thinking he always liked it- and yes, _there,_ Sam’s hips canted off the bed and his hand flopped, like Sam was thinking about tangling his fingers in Dean’s hair but then thought better of it.

Dean set up a rhythm of sucks and slides and wiggles of his finger inside Sam’s ass- he was past the first knuckle and Sam’s hips had begun rocking into him, seeking more more more.

Gently Dean slid his finger out, relocated the lube ( _God maybe they should just buy the jumbo package next time)_ and slowly worked the tips of his first and second fingers back into Sam’s passage, trying to scissor the digits as he went.

Sam was immersed in sweat and lust and the sweetest mix of pleasurepain he’d ever experienced; Dean’s fingers sent occasional little stings and waves of mingled bliss and burning through his hormone-swamped brain, which held him completely in the moment.

It had never been so beautifully apparent that this, _this was real,_ no fantasy had ever been so vivid, no ploy of Lucifer’s ever so arresting.

“Three, Dean,” he gasped, grinding down onto his brother’s hand and wondering just how full he would feel when he was finally riding Dean’s cock.

Dean shook his head, Sam’s dick waggling in his mouth, and continued to scissor those two fingers slowly- so slowly, like glaciers or the movement of celestial bodies or _fucking teasing Dean-_ in and out and in and out of Sam’s passage.

Finally those fucking fingers got deep, deep enough for Dean to push against a little slightly raised section of Sam’s hole and _jesus fuck_ Sam thought he would come right then, just spill right into his brother’s soft pink mouth, the mouth he had been dreaming about for more than a decade.

“Dean!” he gasped, and Dean knew, he just knew, so he hollowed his cheeks around Sam’s cock and feathered his fingertips against _that place_ again and then was swallowing Sam’s come like a champ, little strings of saliva and sperm escaping from the corners of his luscious mouth.

“ _Fuck.”_ Sam lay on the bed, knees still up by his chest, feet getting the tingles from being up in the air for so long.

Dean rolled Sam over onto his side, trying to ignore his cock which was throbbing in a symphony of pain; watching Sam come had been the single hottest experience of Dean’s life, and there wasn’t much the elder Winchester hadn’t tried. Sam had flushed out from his neck, the blood spreading to his cheeks and nipples and forearms and feet. He’d tossed his head back, hair a tangled mane, while the cords in his neck stood out in stark relief. It was so _Sam,_ so wild but controlled, violent but quiet: primal and beautiful.

His fingers were still slowly stroking inside Sam’s tight heat, and his cock bobbed again at the idea of experiencing it for himself. He lubed up one last time, both fingers and dick, before working his ring finger in beside its mates, separating them as far as Sam’s passage would allow.

“Just _fuck me_ , Dean, please,” Sam said, and that snapped the last few threads of Dean’s control; hearing Sam on the cusp of begging was more than a man could be expected to stand. He slid his fingers out and replaced them with the tip of his cock before Sam’s hole could flutter shut. They were spooned together diagonally on the bed, Sam’s feet still almost at the edge, Dean’s braced against the wall, Dean pressed close to him, _into_ him far more than any brother should be.

Dean spread his fingers wide over the skin stretching tight between Sam’s hipbones, anchoring his ass in place, and teeth locked against the strain, he began slowly pushing into Sam.

He was tighter, much tighter than any girl Dean had ever fucked, the sensation so intense it bordered on the painful. With small thrusts and rocks of his hips he worked his way deeper into his brother, each hitch of his body gaining him further entrance into Sam’s hot body.

Sam closed his eyes and let himself go limp as Dean began working that heavy cock into him; he ignored the painful stretch of muscle and instead reveled in the feeling of singing heat, of closeness, of finally taking and being taken by Dean.

He breathed through the stretching, the niggling little warning of _toomuchtootighttoofull,_ and was rewarded when Dean hitched his hips and breathed the little spark of pleasure to flame. Gone was the worry and now it was all stretch and glorious perfect fullness, a feeling of satisfaction and wholeness that he’d never experienced before. Sam ran his hands up his body, one stopping to toy with a nipple, the other continuing back to wrap around the back of Dean’s neck, anchoring him to Sam.

Dean was doing alright until Sam started touching himself, toying with his nipples while holding Dean’s face to the side of his throat. “Oh, fuck Sammy, yea, look so good baby brother, look so good on my cock, touching yourself.”

Some small part of Dean was frankly shocked at the filth coming from his mouth, but the dam had broken and there was no stopping it now.

“C’mon, Sammy, wrap that monster palm around your cock, fuck, such a thick cock, felt so good in my mouth. Yeah, baby, touch yourself, nice and slow now, here, rock with me-” Dean slowed his thrusts from quick and shallow to slow and deep and strong, hips rolling like waves breaking against the shoreline. Sam began to undulate in time with him, pushing back into Dean and then forward into his own hand.

“Nngh!” On one particularly deep stroke of Dean’s cock Sam twitched, a throaty exhalation falling from his dry lips.

Under his hand, Dean felt the muscles low in Sam’s abdomen tighten. Angling his hips back down into Sam’s he thrust again and yes, Sam’s body tightened another increment like a guitar string being slowly wound more and more tightly towards the breaking point.

“C’mon, Sam, doing so good,” Dean rasped, breath hot on Sam’s ear, voice dark and smoky as old Irish whiskey.

“Come for me, come right now Sam,” he crooned, and Sam’s hand was working over his straining cock at a bruising pace, Dean bit his lip until he tasted blood he was working so hard not to pound into Sam’s tight fucking ass, and then holy mother of god Sam came apart in Dean’s arms, his legs going rigid, his abs jumping, his breaths coming in high keens.

It pushed Dean right over the edge after him, locking his muscles as he spasmed inside his brother, his face buried in Sam’s hair, his hands clinging hard enough to bruise. In the aftermath it was almost painful to slide out of his brother’s tightness, his oversensitive cock caught in the contractions of Sam’s hole.

They started to fall asleep just like that, sweat and sperm cooling on their skin, sheets tangled in a ball on the floor, immersed in each other’s scents- the familiar now imbued with the new tang of sex.

“Stay with me,” Dean mumbled, incrementally tightening his arm around his precious brother.

“I will,” Sam replied, and he meant it.

~~

Exhaustion creeps in by increments, first sapping reflexes (just a little slower, nothing to worry about) then physical energy (stairs have never been so hard) and finally awareness, all sense of equilibrium in the world is taken too.

One day Sam stopped sleeping, and everything quickly plummeted from there. He couldn’t ever tell what was and wasn’t real because there was no break, no reference point to chart his location, no familiarity in this roiling sea of Lucifer.

Satan danced. And sang.

He showed Sam visions of Dean in hell, ripped apart and fileted, the coppery and bitter scent of blood thick in the air.

He talked to Sam about everything he’d ever done wrong- from rigging that bully to fail Algebra to guzzling demon blood, he found it all.

He snuck into the most precious and guarded corner of Sam’s mind and ripped up the contents- in Sam’s memory now it was Lucifer in the bed at the cabin, Lucifer rocking into Sam’s ass, not Dean, never Dean.

Because why would a man like Dean sleep with a man like him.

In despair and exhaustion and desperation Sam ran.

By the time Dean located Sam- some run-down state-funded mental ward- he’d already mixed up the ingredients needed to summon Crowley, he’d already resigned himself to selling his soul (again) in order to get Sam’s life back. To get _Sam_ back.

Once he’d seen Sam- who briefly had recognized him- he went back to the motel, determined to exhaust as many options as possible before he separated them again for eternity.

The forty second phone call yielded hope.

A half day’s drive found Castiel.

And another twelve hours brought him back to Sam, returned him and “the healer” to his fallen brother’s side.

Sam didn’t recognize him. There was no glimmer of familiarity in those haunted hazel eyes, none of the sarcasm and fight that made Sam _Sam._

Sam didn’t recognize him at all.

The first thing Sam saw when he… woke up- he guessed he was waking up, that’s what it felt like- was Castiel, poor Castiel, and so he assumed he was dead. Made sense, a human can only go so long without sleep.

“Cas?” he asked, bewildered. Then Sam saw Dean and he was more confused? Had Dean died too? And why was Cas in hell with him and his brother?

Cas’ eyes widened, pupils dilating so far that the iris was the thinnest of navy rings around them. He backed away from Sam making a strangled, choking noise. “Cas?”

Dean slammed into Sam, one hand splayed on his chest, holding him away from the resurrected angel, the other arm wrapped tightly around Sam’s back.

“C’mon Sam, we can’t take him with us and we can’t stay here. He did this for you, Sam, come on!”

Sam followed his brother down the stairs and out a side door that had been propped open. He turned and looked back at the building they’d left and he was struck by memory- Lucifer, running frantically, dodging around a moving car but not being quick enough, not this time, smashing into glass and steel and asphalt, an ambulance ride with Lucifer riding shotgun while singing Help! by the Beatles, the hospital, demons…

He staggered there on the lawn and Dean turned back to look at him, his almost pretty features drawn in tight with fear.

“You alright Sammy? Is he back? Is Lucifer back?” He grabbed Sam’s shoulders and shook them a little, searching his brother’s face.

“No, no, he’s not back, I just… I remember, Dean.”

Emotions flickered rapidfire over Dean’s face- relief, regret, resignation.

“Remember what? All of it?”

“I remember Lucifer, the confusion…,” Sam turned back towards the mental institution. “What about Cas?” His gut clenched at the idea of Castiel experiencing Lucifer’s torture for himself.

Dean grabbed Sam’s hand and began towing him towards the Impala like he was a recalcitrant child once more. “We can’t take him, not when he’s vulnerable like that. Nobody knows he’s here, it’ll be safer.”

They got into the car (which had been secreted in shrubbery on the outskirts of the facilities grounds) and Dean tossed a flannel and some jeans at Sam, who stripped and changed quickly.

They kept the lights off for the first mile or so, waiting to see if they heard sirens in the distance. When it appeared as though their exit had gone unnoticed Dean turned on Huey Lewis and the News, letting the soft music soothe Sam into a dreamless sleep- he always did like some soft blues rock.

When they’d gone running over the institution grounds the last few rays of sunlight had been shooting up from the horizon, the dying light smeared with crimson and umber and mauve giving the sky the appearance of a fading bruise. Sam woke up to a sky studded with stars and no fading grey breaking over the eastern horizon.

He slowly straightened against the seat, reveling at the easy pull of muscles and sinews, how clearly thoughts and sensations whizzed through his brain, how clear everything seemed.

Dean glanced over at him. “How’re you feeling?” The question was staged casually, but Sam could hear the depths.

“Good. Really good, actually. Better than I’ve felt in a long time.” In the past year and a half he’d been to the pit, come back completely soulless, and then suffered intense hallucinations and an acute mental breakdown. That Sam felt better was an understatement only a Winchester could make.

“Why don’t you let me drive for a while?” He popped his shoulders and rolled his neck, just enjoying ease of movement.

Dean shrugged. “Sure.” His older brother had deep shadows under his eyes and his cheeks were slightly pale under the generous dusting of freckles. He’d been seeking out any and every lead that might save Sam, refusing to sleep until his brother could as well.

Dean pulled off into an old feeder road, something probably once used by a farmer to get his tractor from field to field, now long overgrown. He popped the car in neutral and slid out of the car, stretching his arms up towards the heavens and leaning side to side. With a sigh he started walking around the hood of the Impala, legs casting long shadows in the yellow glow of the headlights.

Sam had been watching this display with a rising surge of affection and sexual interest- this was Dean, his Dean, the man who had for so long sacrificed everything to care for Sam. Well, now it was Sam’s turn.

He met Dean in the middle, eerily illuminated from below by the car’s lights. He yanked Dean into a tight hug, murmuring, “Thank you”. Dean, for one blissful second, melted against the bigger man before pulling away.

Sam couldn’t have that. He caught his brother’s face and looked at him for a second, just tracing his eyes over those familiar features- deep, thickly lashed eyes, freckles, short nose, full lower lip- before kissing his startled brother deeply, 

“I didn’t know if you’d remember. And if you did, I didn’t know if you’d, you know, want to.” Dean looked at the trees, the sky, the tips of his worn leather boots. “It was one of those foxhole things,” he muttered, trying to get the conversation over as quickly as possible in his typical fashion.

“You’re practically the only clear thing in my memory, Dean, you were all that I could hang on to.” Sam’s nimble fingers were unbuttoning Dean’s flannel, tugging his shirt over his head all through this gentle tirade. “I’ve waited so long, so fucking long for this, and you think I’d just _forget?”_ He opened his brother’s pants and shoved them down beneath the curve of his ass.

Sam grabbed Dean’s shoulders and twisted him around and down so that his face was against the smooth finish of the car. The hood was warm from the rumble of the idling engine in comparison to the cool night air and Dean got goosebumps- not just from the temperature, but from everything: Sam was back and finally himself, Dean had his ass hanging out of his pants, and Sam, _Sam_ was getting ready to fuck him out under the night sky against his own car.

“Stay there,” Sam said pleasantly, his command belied by the gentle tone of voice. The passenger door opened and the rocked a bit and then door was closed and Sam was back.

Dean heard a wet squelch like a bottle spitting lotion, or in this case, lube. “Knew you kept some of this in the glove box,” Sam said.

“What can I say, something about Baby makes girls wanna take their underwear- oh, _fuck, Sam!”_ While Dean was busy mouthing off Sam slid just the tips of two fingers into Dean’s hole.

“You can take it,” Sam purred, kicking Dean’s right foot out, then doing the same to the left, separating Dean’s beautiful bowed legs about as far as they could go, gaining easier access to the little ring of muscle that currently had all of Sam’s attention.

He squirted a little more lube on the back of his knuckles and worked the fingers in deeper, letting Dean get accustomed to the stretch of the intruding appendages between each move. The whole time he was running his other hand over the curve of Dean’s ass, up and down between his shoulder blades, and then down and round to tug tightly and teasingly at his brother’s cock.

“God Dean, you look so good spread out like this for me, I’ve wanted you so fucking much,” he began to scissor his fingers inside, slowly edging more deeply, seeking the little raised area nestled deeper along Dean’s passage.

Dean had been ignoring the subtle stretch and burn of Sam’s fingers working into his ass, because in a way it was good; it was Sam and a feeling of fullness and that was kind of nice. Then Sam twisted those impossibly long fingers around and brushed some spot and all of Dean’s nerve endings stood at attention, pleasure flashing out and zipping along his limbs like a forest fire. “Sam!” he gasped, and slid a hand down to stroke himself.

“No.” Sam grabbed Dean’s wrist and hauled it back, tucking it behind his neck. He grabbed the other hand and did the same, splaying Dean taunt against his front, his feet wide-spread, his arms back around Sam’s neck. “Keep them there,” Sam growled into his brother’s ear, and he slowly worked his ring finger into the hot clench of Dean’s ass, his other hand beginning a slow stroke and twist of Dean’s shaft. He separated his fingers as far as he could, feeling the give of muscle and tissue.

Finally Sam freed his cock from the almost painful confines of his jeans, lubed up, and gradually worked his way into his brother. He could feel himself slowly, oh god so slowly, sliding his way through layers of muscle and tissues and _jesus, tighttighttight_ until he was fully home in his panting brother.

Dean felt small. For the first time in his adult life he was being fucked by someone taller than him and it was Sam, and holy fuck if Sam wasn’t working Dean over. His whole body was drawn up tight, from his wide-spread and shaky-tense legs to his torso drawn back and up to his hands locked together in the shaggy hair at Sam’s nape. He was just open to Sam, letting the bigger man work his cock and ass and just take control and _ohgodohSamohgod_ did that ever get him off.

Sam couldn’t help but stare down at the place where he disappeared inside his brother, reveling in the way Dean stretched pink and glistening around his cock. He began to thrust a little faster, releasing Dean’s cock to come up and toy with his nipples.

“Sam, please,” Dean groaned, the vibration of his chest passing right into Sam, and the shorter man’s hips began to thrust in earnest, back into his brother and forward, seeking some kind of friction, any kind of sensation.

Sam could feel his own release racing towards him like a summer storm, all speed and heat and crackling electricity. He palmed his brother’s cock again, hips working furiously, hand sliding in counterpoint to his stuttering thrusts.

“Come on, Dean, come now,” he growled, and he felt Dean’s hands tighten into fists at the back of his neck, tangling in his hair, and then _oh fuck oh god oh holy shit_ he was coming and Dean followed, milky come roping across the hood of the car.

They stood together in the aftermath, Dean’s hands down and settled on Sam’s hips, the bigger man’s hands sliding over his brother’s shivery skin.

They cleaned up in the quiet, using Dean’s flannel to swipe over groins- _and Baby, don’t wanna mess up her paint-_ and then they slid into the Impala, Sam in the driver’s seat.

Dean glanced at Sam, his head cocked to the side in that way that meant he was thinking through something. “That does have a way of grounding a man,” he commented and Sam had to kiss him for that, had to smash his lips over his brother in a swirl of teeth and tongue.

“Yeah, it’s quite the reality check,” he scoffed, turning the car onto the highway. The reflection of the stars became silvery blurs in the satin-black paint, her passengers safe and together once more.

~~

**Coda**

War and pain and terror leave their marks as surely as do bullets and knives, teeth and claws. War can be seen in the man who goes belly-to-the-floor at the sound of textbooks being dropped on a tiled library floor, the crack ricocheting like the report of a rifle. Pain is visible in the eyes of a woman who flinches when strangers suddenly move to hug her, in the tight creases forming at the corner of her eyes. Terror, terror is alive in us all- in the little nightlight illuminating dark hallways, our reluctance to set out alone, the way our hair stands on end in times of trouble.

In this brave new world we see these things and recognize them; we nod sagely when a veteran asks his neighbors not to set off fireworks, we help the single woman next door change the deadbolt on her door. We understand these things now because we see them, we are observers of the cause and effect.

The Winchesters stood as lone witnesses for each other, guardians against the blackness that can threaten to consume. There were no others they could talk to, no one to understand their paranoias and quirks. Our YMCAs hold no meetings for Demon Blood Addicts; there are no therapists who specialize in post-hell recovery.

For the entirety of their lives the Winchesters stood shoulder to shoulder, shielding and supporting each other. They were brothers, battle partners, confidantes, guardians, and finally, lovers. Who else could know the things they had faced and still whisper _I’ve got you, you’re safe._ Who else could know of the choices they made and still say _I understand, you did what you had to do._ Who else could caress the scars on their bodies without seeing the rend in the flesh but instead the strength required to heal?

For the Winchesters there could be no others. They were two halves of a hole, one without the other a gun with no ammunition, aimless and without purpose. In the beginning they were fighting for dad, for revenge, for opportunities lost. Then they were fighting for the world, for redemption, for hope. And now, finally, they were fighting for each other- they fought for a chance, they fought for a future, but most of all they fought for love.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Not only was this my fist Big Bang, but this was my first time writing slash fic. I treasure each and every comment! (I'm also on tumblr at winchestersandwordprocessor.tumblr.com if you want to chat.) Thank you so much for reading!


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